stood to get another beer. Suddenly, they jumped him. Three of his comrades pinned him against the wall and pounded him with fists and feet. He was beaten badly, then gagged, bound, and dragged outside, across the gravel road, and into the field where he had been inducted as a member. A cross was lit as he was tied to a pole and stripped. A bullwhip lashed him until his shoulders, back, and legs were solid crimson.
Two dozen of his ex-brethren watched in mute horror as the pole and limp body were soaked with kerosene. The leader, the one with the bullwhip, stood next to him for an eternity. He pronounced the death sentence, then threw a match.
Mickey Mouse had been silenced.
They packed their robes and belongings, and left for home. Most would never return to Ford County.
Wednesday. For the first time in weeks Jake slept more than eight hours. He had fallen asleep on the couch in his office, and he awoke at five to the sounds of the military preparing for the worst. He was rested, but the nervous throbbing returned with the thought that this day would probably be the big day. He showered and shaved downstairs, and ripped open a new pack of Fruit of the Loom he had purchased at the drug store. He dressed himself in Stan Atcavage's finest navy all-season suit, which was an inch too short and a bit loose, but not a bad fit under the circumstances. He thought of the rubble on Adams Street, then Carla, and the knot in his stomach began to churn. He ran for the newspapers.
On the front pages of the Memphis, Jackson, and Tu-pelo papers were identical photos of Carl Lee standing on the small porch over the mob, holding his daughter and waving to his people. There was nothing about Jake's house. He was relieved, and suddenly hungry.
Dell hugged him like a lost child. She removed her apron and sat next to him in a corner booth. As the regulars arrived and saw him, they stopped by and patted him on the back. It was good to see him again. They had missed him, and they were for him. He looked gaunt, she said, so he ordered most of the menu.
"Say, Jake, are all those blacks gonna be back today?" asked Bert West.
"Probably," he said as he stabbed a chunk of pancakes.
"I heard they's plannin' to bring more folks this mornin'," said Andy Rennick. "Ever nigger radio station in north Mississippi is tellin' folks to come to Clanton."
Great, thought Jake. He added Tabasco to his scrambled eggs.
"Can the jury hear all that yellin'?" asked Bert.
"Sure they can," Jake answered. "That's why they're doing it. They're not deaf."
"That's gotta scare them."
Jake certainly hoped so.
"How's the family?" Dell asked quietly.
"Fine, I guess. I talked to Carla every night."
"She scared?"
"Terrified."
"What have they done to you lately?"
"Nothing since Sunday morning."
"Does Carla know?"
Jake chewed and shook his head.
"I didn't think so. You poor thing."
"I'll be okay. What's the talk in here?"
"We closed at lunch yesterday. There were so many blacks outside, and we were afraid of a riot. We'll watch it close this morning, and we may close again. Jake, what if there's a conviction?"
"It could get hairy."
He stayed for an hour and answered their questions. Strangers arrived, and Jake excused himself.
There was nothing to do but wait. He sat on the balcony, drank coffee, smoked a cigar, and watched the guardsmen. He thought of the clients he once had; of a quiet little Southern law office with a secretary and clients waiting to see him. Of docket calls and interviews at the jail. Of normal things, like a family, a home, and church on Sunday mornings. He was not meant for the big time.
The first church bus arrived at seven-thirty and was halted by the soldiers. The doors flew open and an endless stream of blacks with lawn chairs and food baskets headed for the front lawn. For an hour Jake blew smoke into the heavy air and watched with great satisfaction as the square filled beyond capacity with noisy yet peaceful protestors. The reverends were out in full force, directing their people and assuring Ozzie and the colonel they were nonviolent folk. Ozzie was convinced. The colonel was nervous. By nine, the streets were crammed with demonstrators. Someone spotted the Greyhound. "Here they come!" Agee screamed into the loudspeaker. The mob* pushed to the corner of Jackson and Quincy, where the soldiers, troopers, and deputies formed a